I wake up to a faint buzzing in my ears, tickling them. For a second, that drugged out fiend’s words come back to me but then I hear the static crackle of the shortwave and forget about it.

Mom’s up getting ready for work. I kind of want to get up and go see her one last time but I made sure we already had our moment a few days ago, like I did with Lera a week or so back.

Mom likes this kind of alcoholic tea that you put jam in. It’s really strange if you think about it but apparently she used to drink the tea with her family out in the country when she was young. It reminds me of Gluhwein but not as strong, though mom always said that, originally, the tea never had alcohol in it. She always speculates that shots of vodka only started to be added when vodka became cheaper than water.

I made it for her a few nights ago. Honey, spices, pulped fruit (jam) and two shots of vodka is how she likes it. It was just a spur of the moment surprise for her, supposedly. We spent some time together.

I think things will be easier for her after today. Life will be easier.

I’ve woken up early, but by the feel of it I’m not meant to be awake for sometime still. Mom usually wakes me up for school just before she leaves.

This is it. This is going to be the day. Lera will hopefully want to come spend time with mom and move back in. Mom won’t have as much of a financial burden afterwards.

With all the effort, the training, the planning I’ve put into this over the last couple of years, what gave me the final spurt of inspiration, of surety, you could call it, were books. History.

It’s the message you see repeated throughout them. Violence works.

If you look at any revolution, any drastic social, cultural or ideological change, there is blood on the victors hands nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine times out of a thousand. For every protest, every call for change, every outcry for injustice that persevered violence free, there were thousands that were crushed into a bloody rabble. It is a simple lesson which too many people struggle with; violence works.

For some reason everyone concentrates on the one in a thousand miracle, the mass starvation protest, the peaceful exodus of an old regime simply by the will of the far too many. Everyone ignores that it was really those in power who made the mistake of not pulling the trigger. Make no mistake about it, violence works both ways. All the bloody revolutions, the masses rising up to make the streets run red with the blood of the oligarchs; violence worked for them too. There is no hidden perspective or way to twist the truth when it comes to the effectiveness of violence. Yet people ignore it, breathing such platitudes as ‘love overcomes’ and ‘you can’t kill an idea’.

As if an idea can’t die and the only way forward is to aspire to a slow and peaceful martyrdom. Tell that to all the extinct cultures out there. The lucky ones were preserved by some miracle. The barest essentials of their culture have been peeled from fossilised remains and transferred into books. However, as the lucky ones, the few preserved through painstaking effort, their ideas are still dead.

It will take some bloodshed, some bodies, but then again, I think that has always been the cost when making the world better.

Today I’m going to make the world a slightly better place.

I reach under my bed and grab the first loose item my fingers can find.

A wad of Kruna.

I have a feeling the money must be filthy from the way it smells. Notes rubbing against the bodies of unwashed homeless, used uncaringly by fiends. I’m tempted to switch my light on so I can tell what kind of grime I’m touching.

But my light does not work. The bulb is dead. I swapped it out with the bulb in the bathroom when that one died so mom wouldn’t have to buy more yet. I don’t think she’s noticed, that the light in my room is dead.

I pull out a few more wads of Kruna before I find the pencil case. I grab the metallic zips tag and-

The floorboard just outside my closed bedroom door whines shrilly in protest at my mother’s weight a split second before she knocks on my door. I freeze.

“Aleks? Aleks, are you awake?” she asks cheerfully.

“Aleks?” She knocks once more before seeming to interrupt herself. “The shortwave announced school has been called off for the day. Thought it would excite you-”

The floorboard squeaks once more as she turns and begins muttering to herself as she moves away.

“-but it’s too early for you to be awake now. I’ll just leave a note for you on the counter.”

I can’t really grasp what she’s saying. I lie there for a while trying to figure the words out.

I feel like I’m dying. I feel like my chest is too weak to breathe on its own. As though my blood has become thick and congealed as it prepares to seize up for the rest of its days and my heart can no longer pump it.

My breathing is shallow and withering like my lungs are trapped in an unyielding cage. I don’t know how much time passes until I hear my mom collecting her keys before opening and closing the front door behind her. There is a buzzing silence taking me and I almost feel like I might drift away, out of my body and away somewhere.

The shortwave mom’s left on begins to bleed under my door in the silence with its static hiss and chatter.

I’ve never liked what the shortwave has to say but it’s grounding me as I come to terms with having stolen thousands of Kruna and a gun from the tiny branch of the mafia in this town. Grounding me as my carefully laid plan almost topples down on itself. On me.

The little paranoid part of me keeps saying that the school knows, knew, and so school has been cancelled. That Radovan knows. But I just can’t bring myself to believe that. I’d rather listen to snippets of the shortwave than jump to conclusions like this. I lie back and concentrate on the shortwave.

“-still more potholes. Drivers between Toprak and Chervoryska need to keep their vigilance as a time-line has been set again for road repair and maintenance with Toprak town Council member Markov Dostoyevsky. He claims it will take at least five years of budget accumulation before roadwork can begin.”

“Well, you say that, Igor, but Stosha Avenue, named after his daughter last year, is in perfect condition.”

“It was a gift from Council member Markov’s late wife, and it definitely shows he can get the roads fixed.”

The presenter’s co-host grunts in reply.

Stosha Dostoyevsky, I was meant to kill her today.

“Let’s move on, Yurik. Now news has come from Chervoryska down the road that their big science institution - what’s called Igor?”

“The AG Institute of science.”

“Thanks. The AG Institute of Science declared last week they have finished their first inaugural tests.” A crackle of applause sounds as the presenters give their congratulations.

“And with the start of their first test, begins the first rumour, Igor. Have you heard it?”

“Where all the money is going?”

“No, this one is about the delusions going around.”

“Oh? But those started before the tests. But anyway, tell us the rumour, Yurik.”

“As you said. The tests are causing the delusions.”

“No, the drug smuggling rumour is much better, Yurik. The delusions - what do the doctors call them?”

“Minor-mass delusion.”

“Yes, the minor-mass delusions are from drugs being smuggled into Toprak through our water supply. Sometimes the package leaks, sometimes it breaks, and then what happens when you drink the water, Igor?”

“Then you’re on drugs, Yurik. I agree, this rumour holds at least a smudge of truth. As you said, the time-line on the testing rumour does not align. But I still wonder, where do they put the drugs into the water supply and where do they take them out. Do you think they are packaged into little balls to get through the turns of the pipes? They must be very efficient, very diligent these smugglers. Our politicians could learn a thing or two.” The presenters break into a chuckle.

I almost laugh too at the absurdity of it. The drug house is right there, out in the open next to the park. While I don’t know where or how exactly they get their drugs - though delivery by car or van is easy to think of - Radovan, or anyone in his little mafia, has never said or done anything related to drugs being smuggled in through the water system. The idea is insane.

Maybe school was cancelled because of the minor-mass delusion stuff. Sounds a bit too strange to be true.

I toss the filthy money and the pencil case back under my bed. Not sure what else to do today I decide to nap for a while. Maybe something will come to me.

-

A floorboard squeaks, suddenly waking me. I almost jump out of bed. It’s the floorboards just outside my bedroom door. My hand goes down the side of my bed and I grab my big knife, pulling it to my side where my body blocks it from view.

It can’t be mom outside, still too early for her. My mind immediately goes to Radovan or maybe Kostas, but that can’t be true. They can’t know it was me, not yet.

The handle on my bedroom door begins to turn so I pretend to sleep, while trying to see through my slitted lids as my door opens. For a moment there is no more movement, and the doorway is just out of my field of vision. After a few moments the figure enters, from the sound of it, and moves towards my desk and draws. It’s short, smaller than expected. It goes about its business quietly, but from the rummaging and rattling, it sounds like the figure is rifling through my things. Maybe it’s a kid worse off than me looking to steal anything to pawn. Or it could be a fiend wanting to do that exact same thing, and by the smell now in my room, it probably is a fiend.

The house has been broken into once, but that was years ago. The homeless and fiends normally don’t come this far from the park.

I try to squint my eyes to get a better look as it continues its search. Failing, I decide on a rapid blink.

Long dark dirty hair that seems waxy with grease. I should have recognised her stink.

“I’m glad you came home.” I can’t help but blurt out.

Lera jumps as she rounds on me. “Radovan is saying you stole from him!” She’s almost shouting. Probably from being surprised but also anger.

I slide the knife under blankets as I sit up. I’m sure only a guilty person would clutch a knife the morning after stealing from the town’s drug lord.

“So you only came home because Radovan sent you.”

It dawns on me that my plan can no longer be recovered. If school was on tomorrow, the message I left with Lera a few weeks ago is going to be ruined by this encounter we’re having now. Maybe if I can just get her to leave or talk about something else things will be okay.

“No one sent me anywhere!” My words prickled her. “I chose to come here to prove that my dumb brother didn’t steal thousands of Kruna and a gun, Aleks!”

She’s too angry about this, too scared.

I try that trick where you keep eye contact as you lie through your teeth. “Well, I didn’t steal anything.”

I swing my legs out of bed and really look at my sister. I last saw her two weeks ago when I apologised for shouting at her. I was apologising for something old, something from years ago. On the first commemoration - as mom calls it - of dad’s death, Lera came home drunk, went down into the basement and vomited. That’s where all of dad’s belongings are stored. She vomited and almost stained them all with the stench of her sick. I shouted at her, might have pushed her up the basement stairs too, and she ended up moving out of the house soon after that.

It doesn’t sound like that big of a deal, does it? But the basement became a kind of shrine to dad. Mom and Lera packed all of his belongings down there and… It’s a special place.

The guilt of that exchange between us has stuck with me. I didn’t want her to move out, just to not vomit where dad’s things are. The feeling kept growing over the years that it must have been me, I must have made it seem like I didn’t want Lera at home. So the last time I saw her I apologised and said mom and I would really like her to stay with us again. That was my message. I’ve been hoping that after today, Lera would want to come back home to be with mom at least. But now…

“What would I steal a gun for?” I say calmly “I only go to the drug house to try and get you to come home.” It’s not the truth but not a lie either.

Lera turns away and begins searching through my room again. “That’s why when Radovan asked if you came to visit me yesterday I said NO. Because you didn’t come to see me!”

She’s angry, she’s upset. She’s scared and doesn’t really believe me.

“I was there for maybe 15 minutes yesterday.” I start, trying to salvage my innocents. “I went to your room and the door was locked. I waited around a little and decided to leave instead of dealing with people trying to get me to do drugs.”

Watching her carefully, I see no change in her at my words.

I try to put a little irritation in my words. “What do I need a gun for? Think!” People get angry when they’re wrongly accused, right?

She finishes searching through my draws and turns to where I sit on my bed.

“I believe you-” She doesn’t. “-so let me finish searching so I can tell Radovan.” Her eyes flicker between me and my bed.

She takes a step forward and I realise she never was going to believe me. She’s more afraid of what Radovan believes than of me actually having stolen the gun.

She wants to search under my bed.

I don’t want to stop her; I don’t want to fight with her. I thought I had fixed something those few weeks ago when I apologised. She shouldn’t have spewed vomit all over the basement back then but I shouldn’t have told her to leave. It was the drugs, or the alcohol, and it being the first commemoration. No surprise that Lera decided to pump herself with them until she was sick. But she should have known better. I should have known better too.

If school hadn’t been cancelled today everything would have been fine. Mom wouldn’t have to try so hard to support the two of us. Lera would be too late to find anything and I would like to think that she and mom would have become closer in the aftermath. That me apologising a few weeks ago and asking her to come back would have really mattered. The world would have been a slightly better place.

It’s all fucked up. Even if school isn’t cancelled tomorrow it all fucked up. I can’t do it, not after this.

She takes another step. “Let me finish searching.” She’s trying to control her voice, keep how upset and afraid she is out of it. She angles for the foot of my bed and tries to reach for the blanket.

I grab her reaching arm and stand up. “I didn’t steal anything, Lera.” The words feel empty in my throat.

She tries to yank her arm free. “Then let me finish searching!” Her voice cracks.

She starts trying to hit me with her free hand, her chipped violet nails balled into a fist, so I grab that wrist too. “Lera, I did not steal anything.” I can’t think of anything better to say.

Closer now, her stink is coated over with alcohol too. She had to drink before coming here, or maybe drink to wake up.

She starts twisting and yanking, fighting against me. “Let. Me. Go. If you didn’t steal anything then let me go!” There’s panic in her voice but she doesn’t want to believe it.

Crazily enough she starts trying to head-butt me and gets a lucky one off across my teeth. Her forehead would be split open if my lips weren’t in the way.

I tackle her to the ground and pin her arms. Her filthy hair lands stiffly around her. She looks slightly dazed though it could be from landing the head-butt.

Blood begins to drip from my cut lips down onto her. “I didn’t steal anything.”

I’m not sure why I’m saying it anymore. She obviously doesn’t believe me.

Lera tries to struggle and thrash around for a good twenty seconds or so but she’s trapped under me.

“You’re such an idiot.” She’s started crying now “You’re so fucking stupid.”

I try to keep the blood off her but there isn’t much range of motion when I’m pinning her arms to floor. My blood ends up rolling down the side of her cheek. The smell of being this close to her when she’s been unwashed for weeks is getting to me.

Sobs start to wrack her body as she begins talking between big gulps of air just as much for her sake as she does mine. “What do you think Radovan is going to do? You’ll be lucky if he just breaks an arm. What do you even need a gun for? If you and mom were struggling you could have told me. I would have helped. But you thought stealing a gun from a drug lord was the way to deal with this. What’s wrong with you? Why didn’t you just ask me for help? You think he’s just going to beat you and that will be the end of it, but he knows where you live, he knows where mom lives. You didn’t think of me at all did you?”

Between fighting her stink and saying I didn’t steal anything again, I hesitate.

She’s look up at me and I see some kind of internal realisation hit her. “You stole the gun for me.” Her voice cracks again, full of guilt and regret.

She begins squirming with fresh tears leaking out of her now and I’m at a loss. I just wanted her to leave with the belief that I hadn’t stolen anything. I didn’t want any of this to happen. I didn’t want her to be here.

We remain locked like that for several minutes, Lera crying herself raw and me holding her down, not really knowing when to let go.

Eventually, after braving her unwashed stench for far too long, I get off her. “Go wash that blood off in the shower.” Is the only pathetic thing I can think of saying. I hold my hand to my mouth and try to stop the blood from getting anywhere and ruining my t-shirt. My lips are swelling.

Self-loathing hasn’t clung to me like this since I first had the thought she moved out because of me.

I don’t think she’ll keep searching anymore, she doesn’t need to. She has her own answers.

Lera picks herself up having calmed down enough to either fight back her wracking sobs or get them under control. She chooses not to look at me and heads towards the bathroom, probably angry that I made sure she left my room first.

I quickly walk over to the kitchen and search for an old rag to ruin. Stopping the swelling should help my lips stop bleeding, right? I have no idea but it sounds sensible.

The shower starts as I fish a rag out of the bottom of a cupboard and get some ice out of the fridge. The fridge is from dad’s time when things were better. No idea what mom and I are going to do when it breaks. Maybe store perishables outside and hope it’s cold enough.

I’ve been dripping blood all over the kitchen while doing this but I can only do so much at one time. I twist the rag around some ice and bring it to my lips. The feeling is uncomfortable. Better clean up. There’s still the small puddle of blood in my room from rolling down Lera’s cheek.

I’m not sure why Lera seems so afraid of Radovan either. Maybe she’s seen things I haven’t. I mean he always lets me in the drug house but I never buy or anything. Calm is how I would describe him. A fiend starts trouble because they want more drugs? Radovan orders them kicked out and that’s the end of it. The fiends start fighting amongst themselves in the house? He orders them kicked out. No outrage or anger, nothing taken personally and then escalated for purposes of ego or respect.

She’s scared of him. Lera must either be over reacting or know something I don’t.